Aster was quiet for a moment, then inclined his head.
“Whatever else he is, he is a man who keeps his word. That alone makes him dangerous.”
“And human,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
Aster shot me a look.
“Careful.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I just… I don’t think we were meant to meet him and walk away unchanged.”
His jaw tightened, gaze shifting forward again as the Labyrinth drew closer.
“Fate has a habit of doing that.”
The entrance to the Labyrinth soon came into view, the one we had left from when saying goodbye to Stava.
We dismounted quickly, urgency snapping back into place as soon as my boots hit the ground. Stava was already there, like she had anticipated our return.
And with her, the Way Weaver.
The sight of her stopped me short.
She looked smaller than I remembered, her frame more fragile, the weight of time pressing visibly upon her shoulders. Two Minotaur’s stood close on either side of her, steadying her as she waited, her silver eyes fixed on the torch in my hands.
My grip tightened around the staff.
This was it.
Every step I took toward her felt like walking toward the edge of something immense and mysterious. The knowledge settled deep in my bones that whatever happened next would change everything. Not just for Atlas. Not just for their world.
For mine too.
I stopped in front of her, swallowing hard, suddenly acutely aware of how unworthy I felt to be holding something so powerful, so ancient.
The Way Weaver’s silver eyes met mine, and my cheeks flushed hot with shame at the thoughts I had harbored earlier. Yes, she was old, her body fragile and bent with years, her movements slow, but that did not make her weak.
It did not make her incapable. She knew exactly what was at stake here, had known it long before we ever stumbled into her care. And she had never once faltered in her certainty that she could help us, if only we could bring her the torch. And now here she stood, ready to do exactly that.
When I looked at her again, truly looked this time, I saw it in her eyes, the quiet understanding, the forgiveness. I did not need to speak for her to know that I was sorry. She could read it in my mind.
She patted the thick forearms of the two Minotaurs who had helped her stand, dismissing them with gentle insistence rather than words. Until they stepped back, bowing their heads. Her gaze never wavered as it fixed on the object in my hands.
“The torch of Hecate,” she said, reverence threading her voice.
I frowned slightly, glancing down at the unassuming length of wood, then back to her face.
“Isn’t this the torch of the Way Weavers?” I asked, confusion slipping into my tone.
The Way Weaver nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “But it once belonged to the goddess.” Her voice strengthened as she spoke, as though the name itself lent her power. “Hecate carried it at crossroads and thresholds, when there were no roads, when the spaces between worlds had no names. Its light does not banish darkness. It never has.” Her gaze sharpened, intent and knowing. “It reveals what already waits there.”
She reached out and rested her weight lightly against Aster, his broad frame steadying her without question.
“Way Weavers understand this truth better than most,” she continued. “The torch does not create doors. It exposes them. It shows us the places where the world has thinned, where a seamhas formed, where a path might be pulled open if one knows how to look.”
Her attention drifted back to the torch, her expression softening, almost wistful, as though she were peering through it into the past.
